Adventures - 103rd, cactus



Adventures

In No Man’s Land

Pfaffenhofen

Children Are The Unjust Victims Of All Wars

The Moder River winds through rolling hills and between the villages of La Walk and Pfaffenhofen, France. A bridge over the river divides the town of La Walk from the town of Pfaffenhofen. The Germans were on the La Walk side of the river on high ground some distance away from the town and the Americans were on the Pfaffenhofen side within part of the village itself. Neither had troops fully occupying these towns. Both villages were a virtual “no man’s land”. Most of the residents had wisely left for safer places to live even though it required leaving all their worldly possessions deserted and unguarded. I cannot properly describe a war that uproots and destroys the lives and fortunes of so many people on such a large scale. Terror, starvation and death were a way of life for thousands of families. Where battles were being fought, many families often had nowhere to flee to find safety.

Sunday December 31, 1944 at 11:00 p.m. the German Army’s XIII Corps began “Operation Nordwind” which was attributed to be the brainchild of Adolph Hitler himself. The plan was for an offensive effort through the lower Vosges Mountains, which would break through American lines and relieve the German troops in the well-known “Battle of the Bulge” of the Ardennes. This was very nearly successful. The divisions of the American VI Army Group were protecting 15 miles rather than the usual 5-mile area. The assault broke through the 44th Division’s positions. This second “Bulge” is one of WW II’s best kept secrets. It came so close to succeeding it was only revealed on a “need to know” basis to Allied commanders.

My 103d Division was involved. The area of the fighting I was in moved back about twenty miles and gave the Germans territory we would later have to fight to regain. After this, we assumed a defensive holding action between January 22 and March 12, 1945.

Now, aside from occasional patrol activities for scouting purposes, there was only

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limited military action required of my Battalion. We dug more permanent machine-gun emplacements in the frozen ground with jackhammers. This, along with the use of landmines and barbed wire, were defensive measures that we had previously not used. From our gun emplacements we had an unobstructed view across the valley and over the Moder River to the German lines. We could see the Germans and I am sure they could see us. This Alsace-Lorraine region with its Lower and Higher Vosges Mountains and Alsatian Plains has been alternately both part of Germany and part of France at various times in history. There was serious doubt as to which country the loyalties of these people belonged.

It was very cold, and snow and ice blanketed the countryside. A skeleton crew took turns manning our machine-gun around the clock. Care had to be taken that the cold did not freeze the gun and disable it. With only a skeleton gun crew required, the rest of us waited our turn and kept warm in a large two story house about two hundred yards away from our gun positions. We were in the suburbs of Pfaffenhofen. This house, like most, had been vacated by its owners well ahead of our arrival. From the upstairs we were often able to sit and watch the American planes bomb and strafe the Germans. Once, a forward observer from an artillery unit lived with us for a while. He spotted targets and directed artillery fire on the Germans. We could sit comfortably in our house and watch the war being fought. The Air Force and the Artillery were doing all of the fighting now, and this was a welcome change as far as we were concerned.

When we were not on duty in our machine-gun emplacements, the temptation to explore the deserted towns was too great to resist. We now and then sneaked into this no man’s land to explore the almost completely deserted buildings and homes. It was exciting to wander about and view belongings that had been hastily left behind. We did this unbeknownst to our officers.

True Friends

Friends will bale you out if you get in jail, but true friends are sitting there beside you saying, “Damn, that was fun!”

Doug Merrill and Jeff Jennings were true friends. While on one of these unauthorized explorations, the three of us discovered a small German family comprised of a mother,

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two small children and a grandfather. They were among the very few that had chosen to stay in their home. I suspect they had no other place to go. Although we felt there was little danger, considerable risk was probably present. German soldiers would sometimes also be reconnoitering the village. The phrase, “Curiosity killed the cat”, leaps to mind.

As we entered the home, the children were playing a familiar board game called Parcheesi; you roll dice and advance a token to win. The mother greeted us cautiously with some apprehension. She obviously did not wish to appear unfriendly, and had anxious reservations about what we might do. Her concerns for her safety and the safety of her family were obvious. We smiled and tried to indicate we intended no harm. It was refreshing to watch the innocent joy shared by the children as they played their Parcheesi game. In this childhood innocence, the fear and hardship of war was momentarily absent. It was infectious. After a while Doug Merrill used gestures to indicate that he wished to join the children in their game. The children were pleased to include all of us, and signaled us to join them. There was a language barrier, of course, but they overcame this with lively imaginative hand signals. Soon the mother joined us too, and before long three homesick American soldiers and this small family were sharing a happy time together in the middle of a battlefield. What a paradox. Here we were the conquering soldiers invading a foreign country, and we were down on our hands and knees playing a children’s game in the middle of no man’s land with an enemy family. As we played, we discovered that part of the fun from our game was from catching each other cheating. The mother playfully started cheating in an obvious fashion first. Soon, everyone began trying to cheat, and we all laughed with delight when a culprit was caught. We were silly, and we giggled and laughed. This was an outlandish happening under such hostile surroundings, but it was great fun. None of this met with the approval of the old grandfather, however. He distanced himself from this undignified behavior, and sat silently in the corner. We were the enemy, and we were in the middle of a war. For the rest of us, the war was momentarily forgotten and a sanity was briefly returned to our lives. For me, the meaning of such simple pleasures was enriched in ways that I cannot describe. We take so many of these moments for granted. We forget they are numbered and deserve to be savored.

Doug Merrill was a person who adjusted to life wherever he happened to be. His independent attitude kept him from relying upon the military to control his life style. This was particularly true with regard to his eating and entertainment pleasures. He was cheerful, venturesome and fun to be with; A good man to have as a “true” friend. Exploring no man’s land was his idea.

Our rations were adequate but uninteresting. Food was an ever-present thought in our

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minds. Although our company kitchen followed behind us and prepared hot meals when it was at all possible, such a treat was rare. It took time for the kitchen to set up, cook and then deliver the food to us from their distant location. After several days, we were still eating the usual rations that had become a bit boring. Now however, for the first time, we had the freedom and the idle time that allowed us to do something about menu choices. Doug had ideas about this. Although he lived with his squad in a different house from ours, our free time allowed us to socialize. The German resident in Doug’s house had chosen to remain with his home and belongings. Doug was obsessed with the desire to have some good old American French-fried potatoes.

Precious French Fries

Perhaps it brought back memories of home. After considerable effort, he was able to locate the grease and a few potatoes. He cooked a plate full of these hard to come by French fries, which he shared with us. Also, he politely attempted to share some with the German resident. At first the German declined, but Doug, who sincerely wished to share, insisted. After several persistent offers, the German finally accepted Doug’s offer, but instead of taking a small sample, he took the whole plate and quickly departed. Doug stood dumbfounded as all of his priceless French-fried potatoes disappeared around the corner in the hands of the enemy. As I look back, I now realize that the families that were trapped in the middle of a battlefield like this had no way to get food. The act was not so much one of bad manners as it was a desperate need to feed his family.

Several rabbits were once spotted near our gun emplacement. Rabbits are edible, and these rabbits seemed almost tame enough o catch. It was Doug’s plan to use the stock of his .30 caliber carbine to club one of these into submission. There followed an entertaining few minutes in which a bundled up clumsy looking Doug Merrill chased an agile rabbit around and around in the snow and on the slippery ice. He held his rifle like a club by its barrel in readiness, but kept slipping and falling. After a few desperate lunges that missed their mark, and some spectacularly funny pratfalls, Doug was out of breath. The rabbit effortlessly evaded him. Doug never got within serious striking distance of the rabbit, and the idea of having rabbit for dinner began to seem less and less appealing. Doug’s clumsy antics brought tears of laughter to a war weary gun crew. We had an entertaining example of slapstick comedy that bested most of those seen in

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the movies. The rabbit hopped off to find a friendlier neighborhood, and Doug conceded defeat.

Jeff Jennings once thought he would add to our limited menu by “liberating” a chicken for us to cook. He discovered a chicken coop behind one of the houses that appeared to be forgotten and unprotected. It looked like it would be very easy to capture one of these for an evening meal. It didn’t turn out to be that way. Chickens do not stand still to be stolen by strangers. Jeff discovered that when frightened, chickens can make enough noise to be a burglar alarm suitable to protect the nation’s gold in Fort Knox. The noisy chickens brought the lady of the house out in time to catch Jennings red-handed. He sheepishly returned his catch to its rightful owner and we once again ate K-rations that night.

Children’s Games In No Man’s Land

During our stay in Pfaffenhofen we took turns weathering the cold and snow to man our machine-gun emplacement and keep our gun from becoming ice bound. After taking our turn manning the machine-gun, we could return to the warm comfort of our house and watch our Air Force and artillery do all of the fighting. The burden of the war was now on someone else. The Infantry rarely gets to participate in war as a “spectator sport”. From time to time we went exploring in the deserted buildings of no man’s land and played games with the children.

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Reisdorf

The Unhappy Camper

Near Reisdorf, Germany in March of 1945 I was reaching the limit of my ability to withstand the physical and emotional demands required. A numb, wooden feeling of hopelessness was taking over my mind and body. I had already been wounded in December, and many of my friends had been lost. Now I was a Sergeant with two squads made up of mostly new replacements who were strangers to me. We were not allowed any free time that afforded relief from the stress of around-the-clock combat conditions. After long tension filled days exposed to the constant threat of death, sleeping on the ground in rain and snow offered little rest. Hot food and clean sheets were a distant memory and unlikely to be experienced any time soon. Living in filth for days on end gave an importance to bathing beyond imagination. Body odor in a combat infantry unit is seldom described as the kind of hardship it can become.

Infantrymen are expendable. They are like the chess pieces that are exposed and sacrificed in order to win in the game of chess. In the strategy of war, this has always been the role of the infantry. During World War II, the U.S. Army deployed 68 combat divisions to the European Theatre of Operations. Those infantry, armored, airborne and mountain divisions suffered 78% of all Army casualties sustained in the Theatre. The infantry, by far, absorbed the greatest percentage of casualties, 80% of the Army’s men killed in action were infantrymen. While only 14% of the Army’s total overseas strength, the infantry suffered 70% of all total casualties. (Order of Battle, U.S. Army World War II by Shelby L. Stanton, Navato, California: Presido Press 1984.)

Pawns On A Chess Board

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Unless you have a death wish or are an avid collector of Purple Hearts, you may prefer duty in another branch of the military. The 103d Division was late in participating in the fighting compared to that of many other infantry units in this war. Still, with only a hundred and forty seven days of combat time, the 103d Division suffered sixty-six percent casualties. Men of the 3d Division, who participated in combat 233 days, joked that their unit had one division on line, one division in the hospital and one division in the cemetery. Statistically, this was very nearly the truth. Their casualty rate was 201.6%. After ten days in combat, infantrymen were awarded the Combat Infantrymen’s Badge and given hazardous pay of an extra ten dollars a month. From the casualty data of World War II, this sum seems rather small. The Combat Infantryman’s Badge, however, is one of the more coveted awards by career soldiers. It is proof of battle experience, and important to career advancement.

From October 1944 until March of 1945 the 103d Division had been mostly chasing a retreating German Army through northern France into Germany. From time to time the retreating Germans would stop and fight for a while before continuing their retreat. In March near Reisdorf, Germany, the enemy reached the prepared defenses of the Siegfried Line. This was their best position from which to defend their country, no more retreating.

After more than fifty years, my recollections may be somewhat exaggerated, but this is what I recall the men of the First Battalion of the 409th Infantry Regiment faced in March 1945. The high ground was controlled by the Germans. They occupied small forts made of reinforced concrete, which we called “pillboxes”. These small forts were connected by zigzagging trenches dug to a depth of about five and a half or six feet. The pillboxes had small windows to allow automatic weapons to cover the ground over which we had to go. This resulted in a devastating cross fire for us to suffer as we climbed over obstacles up the sloping ground. The obstacles consisted of fallen trees, land mines and a barbed wire designed to entangle and slow down an attacker. The Germans could cover all of this open area we had to cross with grazing machine-gun fire and mortars as we attacked. We had to advance slowly over these obstacles a good distance in order to reach our objective, which was the trenches. It seemed to me that this attack, over such a well-prepared defensive position, offered certain death to any attacker. We could clearly see what lay ahead and think about what we were getting ready to experience. I was thankful that it was not my lot to be a part of the first wave. To me, it seemed that survival would be an improbable thing for this first group. They would attract the full force of all this firepower. It would be concentrated upon them at a time when they were most defenseless.

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I became convinced that I would not survive this war, and the certainty of death became fixed in my mind as I looked at what lay ahead. As I mentioned earlier, coming to terms with the probability of death is an unpleasant experience. For me it was a gut wrenching affair. I did not want to die. Other worldly problems diminished into no importance as I tried to accept what now appeared to be the inevitable. Now that I am over eighty years old, I view death a bit differently. Some of us die too young and some of us die too old. The truth is, I think there is such a thing as the “right time to die”. I can now accept the reality of this. If you fear death too much it is impossible to enjoy life. At age twenty-one though, I was not happy about the thought of dying. Descriptions of fear are very difficult to write. They must walk a narrow line close to the yellow shadow of cowardice. An admission of cowardice is unacceptable to both myself and the military. I kept remembering the view that I had come to accept early on, “You are not going to live forever anyway, and few people have a chance to die for a worthy cause. Most people live for a while and then they die without making much of a worthwhile contribution to anything.” Even so, I was not a happy camper. My father used to say, “You don’t overload the wagon and then beat the mule.” This seemed to be my predicament. My wagon had been overloaded for some time. My choices were narrowed to a very few alternatives, none of which were appealing.

Most of the group I was with succeeded in reaching a part of one of the trenches. Our losses were not as great as those that went before us. Our troubles, however, had only just begun. We now found ourselves in trenches barely wide enough for two people to pass without turning sideways. As nearly as I could tell, a good many of our officers had been killed or wounded. Leadership and command had in some instances fallen to enlisted personnel. There were German prisoners mixed in among us with portions of the trenches still held by the Germans. The dead and dying of both the Americans and the Germans were forced to lie along the edge of the trenches. They were exposed to small arms and mortar fire. As you traversed the trench you were face to face with these casualties with their helplessness. They were in a state of fear and pain without likelihood of any immediate relief. Most often these men stoically accepted their fate. I found this to be the case with few exceptions. There was no relief that we could give them and they knew it. Up to this moment, we had been in an attack mode several days with little or no sleep. Although sleep was out of the question now, from time to time it overcame me while I was standing or leaning and the falling sensation woke me as my knees hit the ground. Even in the middle of a sentence, I could sometimes find myself falling asleep. I learned that my body would not let me stay awake if it needed to sleep badly enough, no matter how frightened I was.

We were forced to make the enemy prisoners stand outside of the trenches because we

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would lose control of them as they mingled with us within the trenches. The German prisoners were desperate to get out of this unprotected area, of course. On one occasion an unarmed aid man with only his Red Cross arm band took a group of about sixteen German prisoners to the rear with him. They were eager to get to safety. Unfortunately there were instances where the wounded and dying were again wounded from being forced to lie exposed to fire in such an unprotected area outside the trench. It was chaos. This intermittent close combat fighting lasted about two days (I lost track of time) and it appeared to finally reach a stalemate. Neither side gained ground. After we occupied a good portion of the trenches, there were pauses and extended waiting periods. The active fighting was not continuous. Once, when the Germans threw hand grenades into our portion of the trench, we quickly picked them up and threw them back before the grenades could detonate. Lack of sleep, and this lengthy close combat took its toll. A numbed battle weary state of total exhaustion took over my body. It craved sleep.

At one point, in this tension-ridden climate, a rumor spread like wildfire that we were being subjected to a gas attack. Early on, we had discarded the cumbersome gas masks that we had been issued, and panic began to take hold. Platoon Sergeant Max Irwin, without regard to his personal safety, stood up and scotched this rumor, preventing what could have led to a disaster. On another occasion, I recall Tech Sergeant Irwin falling asleep and dropping to his knees while he was giving us instructions. He had slung his carbine over his shoulder with its muzzle down to keep the rain out. He was jarred awake as his knees hit the ground and his carbine muzzle was jammed into the mud.

I suffered my most ghastly and disgusting experience of World War II when a mortar round struck a nearby German prisoner and splattered me all over with fragments of his body. He was killed, and I was faced with scraping portions of his bloody flesh off my face and clothing as best I could. With no way to really get clean in the absence of any soap and water, I had to suffer the revolting experience of living with grisly pieces of human flesh stuck all over my clothing until I was finally wounded and taken back to the hospital in Dijon, France. If there is such a thing on earth that is worse than Hell, war must surely be it.

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An Infantryman’s Vacation

On March 22, 1945 we left the trenches and began moving to our left. After going down the hill we were on and getting almost to the top of another, we started getting our machine-gun in position to give fire support for our riflemen. Although all three of us held the same Staff Sergeant rank, there had only been replacements enough for two squads made up of the replacements and survivors. Jeff Jennings and I were now serving as squad leaders. Doug Merrill was serving as our section sergeant. As I sat down and turned back to watch Al Sodman get our gun ready, a mortar round exploded in back of me. Three of us, Doug Merrill, Al Sodman and I were wounded by this same mortar round. Shrapnel tore through three layers of clothing on the right side of my back and exited the left side. It felt like a giant hand had tugged me by my field jacket. My wounds were not great, however, compared to those received by Doug and Al. They suffered the greatest wounds by far. Along with many other shrapnel cuts, Doug’s leg and Al’s wrist and hand were badly hurt. We all started down the hill to the aid station, but neither Doug nor Al was able to walk. I went on and stretcher-bearers came up the hill to carry them back. I was taken to the rear in an ambulance. One of the occupants was a wounded German soldier who had been hit six times previously. A Chaplain at the aid station took a picture of me and a rifleman, Ed Schulman, as we were getting in the ambulance. I have framed this picture and hung this in my office.

The degree of happiness and unhappiness that life brings is measured from our moments of greatest misery. Whatever troubles I have suffered since World War II have paled in comparison to this period of my life. However modest my material wealth and successes have been over the years, there is a deeper appreciation for the blessings I now have when I compare it to this point of my life.

I never saw Doug Merrill until May when he and I rejoined Company “D” in Innsbruck, Austria. I saw Al Sodman on a stretcher in a train depot in Strasbourg where we were both waiting to be transported to different hospitals. I was able to walk over and briefly visit. I discovered that Al had lost a finger and among other things the stem of his wristwatch was now imbedded in his wrist. Our conversation revolved around things the lost finger would now keep him from doing and the fact that the wristwatch had been borrowed from a friend. Al felt he was responsible for having damaged it. He was

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guilt ridden about this. For my part, I felt getting hit with a mortar round was an acceptable excuse for damaging a borrowed watch. (Years later at our annual Company “D” reunions, neither of the three of us remembered the exact details of this incident the same way.)

The exact nature of my own wounds has always been somewhat of an embarrassment to me. When I am asked, “Where were you wounded?” I give the deliberately evasive answer, “In Germany.” To be factual and appropriately responsive to the question, however, I should admit to having been shot in my backside. Although small shrapnel fragments still remain in my back and neck, the surgery required was on my left buttocks. Even though I was in a sitting position when the mortar round exploded, a large fragment requiring surgery was embedded there. The Chief Justice of Florida’s Supreme Court, Jimmy Adkins, was a friend of mine. We both grew up in Gainesville, Florida. When I attended his retirement party, Chief Justice Adkins chose to introduce me as, “The only person I know in World War II who was shot where he sits down when he was sitting down.”

The First Battalion casualties suffered on March 22nd were 8 officers lost, 99 enlisted men wounded and 16 killed in action. I am surprised the casualties were not much greater.

A Bond Was Formed

This war was a time when all of us in Company “D” were being tested. We made discoveries about ourselves and each other. A bond was formed among us that was fired in the furnace of this test. There was a kinship born that lasts, even now, for all of us.

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A Good Place To End The War

A Ski Resort

Innsbruck Austria

While I was hospitalized in Dijon, France, the war was quickly reaching its end. German resistance was crumbling, and my 409th Infantry Regiment moved rapidly into Germany through Worms and Hanau, as far north as Fulda before turning south and ending up in Innsbruck, Austria on May 2, 1945. This is where I rejoined Company “D” after my hospital stay. It was a few days before the war ended in Germany.

My friend, Jeff Jennings, had an interesting incident during this last rapid push to Innsbruck. Sniper fire had caused him to take cover in a shallow ditch. He was lying with his head peeking out trying to spot the sniper and the sniper fired first. The sniper’s bullet traveled the length of Jennings’s body. It started with cracking the wristwatch crystal on his left wrist, went down his left sleeve, passed through his shirt, went through his left rear pants pocket and didn’t wound him at all, not a scratch.

The Sniper And The Handkerchief

The watch still worked, however, when he took out his handkerchief from his left rear pants pocket, the handkerchief was riddled with holes. The sniper escaped and Jeff had a handkerchief with a war story.

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It was my Battalion that moved into Innsbruck and occupied it. At this point, although the war was not over, there was no one left for us to fight. Our job now became one of occupation. After the war ended, we assumed patrol and police duties. When our guard detail took over the Innsbruck police barracks, to live there and serve as policemen, they were surprised to discover there were women living in the barracks with the policemen. These women now seemed happy to share their same arrangement with the American soldiers. Those of us assigned to patrol duties in the rural countryside felt a bit slighted.

The Austrian people were friendly and this duty was almost like an extended vacation. It was rather strange. We were technically at war, but most of them seemed very unhappy with the Germans. Company “D” was dispersed from Innsbruck, and was located in private homes in nearby Hall, Austria. The home in which my squad lived was shared by a mother and a daughter, who was approximately eight years old. Before long, there was a friendly relationship in spite of our role as conquerors. We shared some of our food and on occasion the mother would even fix a salad or some extra little treat for us. Ironically, it was this young Austrian daughter who, on May 7th, was the first to tell me that the war was over. As I was returning to the house, she came dashing out shouting excitedly, “The war is over!” in German. Her unusual enthusiasm made it easy to interpret what she was saying. Although this had been expected for some time, this official announcement lifted a long-standing cloud and gave my life a-new and happier outlook. I never thought it would be a German, with feelings of joy so similar to my own, who would be the one to announce and share this wonderful news.

Contrary to our orders, we fraternized with the local residents. I even remember a couple of us going to a private party one evening. This, of course, was not something we were supposed to do at all. Not only were we forbidden to fraternize with the citizenry, but there was a curfew prohibiting travel at night for everyone. We risk getting shot by our own guards when we ventured out like this after nightfall.

Private First Class John Baumgartner was one of the few men in Company “D” that could speak fluent German. This was a tremendous advantage when it came to getting acquainted with a civilian population that was virtually all female with only a few old men. I remember an occasion where John’s fluent flirtatious German dialogue was able to get him an invitation into the home of an attractive young lady. She lived in a farmhouse some distance from town. After John’s verbal advances, she beckoned him to leave our jeep and indicated she wanted his help in the house. The rest of us watched with some envy as John followed this very attractive young lady into her home. After sorting our some minor communication problems, the young lady stood on a chair with a full bucket

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of water and a mop. She pressed the handle of the mop against the bucket of water holding it against the ceiling. She signaled John to hold the handle of the mop, thus keeping the bucket of water pressed against the ceiling. Although a bit puzzled, John of course jumped at the chance to be helpful. He stood there below the bucket of water holding the mop handle to keep it in place. With this, the young lady stepped off her chair, removed it some distance and laughed at John who was now trapped. If he removed the mop handle he was holding, the bucket of water would spill all over him. Without the chair, he had no way to reach the bucket of water to prevent its spilling. He was helplessly trapped. The young lady now joined us in a good laugh at John’s expense.

A nearby ski resort was taken over and we were given passes to spend time there. Beer and snacks along with skis were provided. As a lifetime Florida resident, where snow is a novelty, this was my first experience with skis and snow.

Skis Are Dangerous

I was under the misconception that skiing was a rather simple thing that any child could easily do. I viewed coasting down a snowy hill as childlike fun and saw no reason to bother with the “beginners” slope to learn how to do such a simple thing. Beer, skis and the male ego is a dangerous combination. They cloud your judgment in such matters and invite unsuspected risks.

I was able to attach the skis to my boots, I managed to get to the starting place and I began my “coasting” down hill. Then it became apparent that this was not as simple as I had thought. Here I was, looking at a steep ski run that seemed to stretch for endless miles almost straight down. I did not know how to turn to the left or right or stop, and I was already going over fifty miles an hour with miles of the steep mountain slope left to cover. I was gaining speed by the second. I now understood why I had been encouraged to try the “beginners” slope first, but it was too late now. I had a desperate, helpless feeling. I felt as though I was on a runaway freight train gaining speed by the second that was headed toward certain disaster.

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My choice for getting out of this predicament was either a “voluntary” fall while traveling at a rate of speed fast enough to threaten life and limb, or an “involuntary” fall later, at a speed that would surely mean death or permanent disability. There was little doubt that I would be better off to end this foolishness as slow as possible. Immediate action was called for. I started my “voluntary” fall, and it seemed to me that I rolled and tumbled forever. I plowed up enough snow to build my own ski slope. When I finally stopped rolling, and determined I was bruised but unhurt, I recovered my skis, hiked back up the mountain. I spent the remainder of the afternoon drinking beer and reflecting on the advantages of the absence of snow in Florida. I discovered that I was much better at drinking beer than I was at skiing. I believe a fellow should stick to what he is good at.

Now, when people who ski tell their usual anecdotes, I am able to join in and preface my own comment with, “The last time I was skiing at Innsbruck in Austria . . . . “ I never explain that this was the first, last and only time I was ever on skis and have no intention of ever going near a pair of the darn things again. They are dangerous.

From Innsbruck, a good many of us were reassigned to the Fifth Infantry Division and returned home. We were to be used in the invasion Japan. While awaiting assignment, the atomic bomb was dropped.

Should we have used the atomic bomb ?

There are some who now criticize President Truman for his decision to use such a devastating weapon. It’s massive destruction extended well beyond normal military targets. This ‘after the fact’ idealism may now seem a judicious thing, but when you are up to your neck in alligators it is not the time to drain the swamp. Each passing day of war brought more loss of life. President Truman’s decision was a necessary course of action. I believe this decision shortened the war and saved both American and Japanese lives. Idealism like this seems to increase in direct proportion to one's distance from the problem.

The use of the atomic bomb and other weapons capable of such massive destruction has signaled the beginning of a new era in warfare. Technology has multiplied the

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consequences of violence. A few people can now destroy an entire civilization. The world now has more and better destructive devices than we have the wisdom to manage. Not only is this a frightening fact, but the magnitude of this problem is growing with each passing day. It will never be less of a threat than it is at the moment. It is a burgeoning uncertainty that looms over our future. “Security” has taken on a new meaning and requires new measures. When you mix violence with zealots and such powerful weapons, survival of the world as we now know it is at risk. This combination is like striking matches in a dynamite factory, and we seem Hell bent on doing it. More destructive implements of war will continue to be developed and perfected as long as violence decides who the winners are. History supports this. It is a dismaying thought that the actual decisions of when and how to protect the world is in the hands of political leaders. Watching politicians respond to public need is much like watching the baby play with a loaded pistol.

Is there intelligent life on this planet ?

We have met the enemy and he is us. It appears virtually impossible to ever over estimate the ability of mankind to be foolish. The appeal of selfish goals has such a driving force that their final consequences are overlooked. Like the monkey who reaches into the cookie jar, he has trapped himself. Until he releases his greedy hold on the cookies, he cannot get his hand out of the jar. Mankind appears to be trapped like this by his own cupidity.

Perhaps the last best hope for the future is “enlightened” self interest, and this does not appear to be a goal that has a popular following among the religious and political extremists who have hijacked worthy causes and perverted them to such horrific ends.

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The Volunteer ?

[pic]

How can you accidentally jump out of an airplane ?

My service record and combat experience prompted my being given a reserve commission as a Second Lieutenant in 1948 while I was in college. Each summer I was required to do a tour of active duty, however. As usual, I gave this matter little thought until the last minute, and in the course of running some personal errands one day, I stopped by the U.S. Army Reserve office to hastily select a summer duty that would not conflict with my other summer plans. The duty whose dates were most convenient for me was a course at Fort Benning, Georgia on airborne transportation. I chose this only because of the dates it was offered. By its description, which I only hastily scanned, I envisioned this as classroom instruction on military logistical matters using things like gliders. I had been trained as a gliderman in 1943. It sounded like an easy way to spend the summer, which I assumed would be spent in an air conditioned class room. This turned out to be a miscalculation of gigantic proportions.

As my taxi drove me to the location where my orders instructed me to report, I found Fort Benning to be an interesting place. Fortunately, my taxi driver was familiar with the post and so I gave him a copy of my orders to allow him to take me to the correct place to report for duty. As we passed by two very tall towers, men in parachutes were jumping from their very top. It was a spectacular sight. I asked the taxi driver if he would mind stopping, and together we watched these men parachute from these towers for a while. I later learned they were two hundred and fifty feet high. I was in awe, and marveled at the courage such a jump must take. As I talked, the taxi driver began to look at me rather strangely and finally said, “Aren’t you aware that in two weeks you will be doing that yourself? Didn’t you know this? Didn’t you know that you volunteered to be a paratrooper? Didn’t you read your own orders?”

This was my first realization that I had unwittingly volunteered to be a paratrooper. It became my “Summer from Hell”. The terror I felt at the thought of jumping out into space from an airplane with just a small bundle strapped on me, however, was dwarfed by the torture of the physical training that preceded the parachute jumps. We

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suffered through an almost constant exercise program under Georgia’s hot summer sun. At the end of each day I collapsed on my bunk in a weakened state of total exhaustion with only enough energy to eat, shower and go to bed. Sitting around a college campus reading books and drinking beer does not put you in very good physical condition for the kind of training paratroopers are subjected. Before being allowed to jump, we were required to run a certain distance in a specified length of time, perform so many pushups and chin ourselves so many times (I forget the exact numbers involved here). After weeks of physical torture getting into shape to take these tests, only about two thirds of the class passed and were allowed to jump. (Several times the thought crossed my mind that failure in this physical test would not be all bad.)

Gainesville, Florida had a number of World War II veterans who distinguished themselves in the war and were highly decorated. I was surprised to learn that my paratrooper training Company Commander was Captain Tom Pollard, who was one of these veterans from Gainesville, Florida that had been recognized as a local hero. In high school, Captain Pollard was a year or two ahead of me but I knew him then. We shared a mutual friend, Ed Brown, whom I knew from the first grade. Ed Brown had been stationed with me at Fort Bliss, Texas in 1944. Both of these friends followed my struggles to become a paratrooper with interest, and arranged to be present at my first jump. With an audience like this, it is very difficult to find a graceful way to give up this foolish idea and go home, but I did give it some thought.

My fears about jumping were compounded when I discovered I had to pack my own parachute. Think about this for a minute. How would you feel about it? Is this the time you really want to trust a beginner?

Should amateurs pack your parachute ?

If ever there was a job that, in my opinion, needed to be done by a “proven professional”, the packing of my parachute was it. This is no time to use an amateur. You don’t get a second chance if these things don’t work, you know. I suspect the military viewed the practice of packing your own ‘chute as being a “reassuring” thing for the first time jumper. It wasn’t reassuring to me at all. I am not handy at doing little jobs like this. After more than fifty years of marriage, my wife prefers I call an

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electrician rather than have me replace a light bulb. She is convinced that I will somehow do it wrong and the house will burn down. Her fears, unfortunately, are founded on some fact. She has spent her married life watching me try to put the children’s toys together unsuccessfully (I always end up with extra parts), ruining vacuum cleaners and causing lawnmowers to mysteriously fall apart. My track record for “do it yourself” projects is very poor. I was not the kind of person I would choose to pack my parachute. I have the mechanical aptitude of a retarded two-year-old child. In spite of my protestations, though, I had to pack my own parachute. I believe I would have continued the whole day and all night packing and re-packing that one parachute if I had been allowed to stay longer in the hanger. I have never been so highly motivated to do a job correctly in my life. The instructional staff finally made me stop so they could go home.

It defies common sense to step out of an airplane flying over a hundred miles an hour a thousand feet high. Your mind can conjure up a million things that could go wrong. It only takes one mistake. It’s not the kind of thing you can just do over and write failure off as a “learning experience”. My first jump almost frightened me to death. When the Jump-master said, “Stand up, hook up, check your equipment, shuffle and stand in the door”, I tumbled from the airplane door with my mind paralyzed by fear. The practice of hooking the parachute ripcord to the plane beforehand probably saved me. Otherwise I may not have had the presence of mind to pull my ripcord. I discovered after the first jump, however, that parachuting is not such a bad thing after all. Suspended high above the earth and out of the summer heat at ground level, there is a peacefulness and serenity that is pleasant. The sensation of falling is not very noticeable until you are close to the ground. There is an illusion of hanging in space. There is an emotional rush that is strangely pleasing. I came to look forward to jumping before the summer was over.

The human mind is a strange thing in its ability to adapt to such an irrational act. The fact remains, though, had I known what I was doing, I would never have become a paratrooper! Not in a million years!

Not in a million years !

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Selestat Revisited

Forty-One Years Later

September 1985

Why are we doing this ?

After forty-one years, in 1985, some of the men of Company “D” returned to Selestat and to the other places they had fought in France, Germany and Austria. Allan Kraft, who was with us in Company “D” during the war, was owner of Kraft Travel Agency in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and arranged the trip. It covered our battles from St. Die, France to Innsbruck, Austria. For those who were able to participate, this tour was an experience beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. Including wives and friends, there were thirty-five of us who shared wartime memories at their place of happening.

We briefly stopped over in London and Paris, and then for about two weeks our group traveled France, Germany and Austria in our private chartered bus as we visited the areas in which we fought.

Among many places we spent some time are the following:

France – Nancy, Taintrux Valley, St. Die, Steige, Selestat, Strasbourg,

Germany - Mannheim, New Ulm, Heidelberg, Garmish-Partkenkirchen, Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Dachau, Weisbaden, Cologne

Austria - Innsbruck, Ingles

Netherlands - Amsterdam

My wife, Jan, was unable to make the trip. I was pleased that one of my four children, my twenty-nine year old son Jim, accompanied me and was able to share in the renewal of old friendships and the stories from my past. Jim was quickly accepted by everyone on the trip and made to feel welcome. One group of my buddies insisted he go with them on a tour of Amsterdam one night while I spent a sober evening playing cards.

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Also, some new found German friends that he met in a bar in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, West Germany took him on a two day tour of Austria while I was in Innsbruck. I am sure he has memories of this time in our lives that will last a lifetime, with some extending beyond what was scheduled on the tour.

In September of 1985 we were surprised to learn that St. Die had a World War II museum in which our 103d Infantry Division was featured. We received a special tour from the Museum Director and gave him one of our Company “D” hats, prepared especially for our trip, to add to the museum artifacts. St. Die was our first taste of actual combat, but my memory of St. Die is one of sleeping in a hayloft before we did any fighting. When we were following a retreating German Army through the rural area of northern France, we often used barns and haylofts as warm dry places to sleep at night.

At that time, I had thought it a handy thing to attach a hand grenade to the lapel of my field jacket. Thus, a hand grenade was easily available at all times. The theory was good, but invariably the grenade pulled lose from my jacket during the night, and I found myself frantically searching through the hay each morning looking for a hand grenade and worrying whether or not the pin could have been accidentally pulled, activating it. Searching for a live hand grenade each morning will wake you up faster than a strong cup of coffee.

Quick Wake Up

As you might expect, I soon gave up keeping hand grenades handy while I slept. At St. Die, while I was doing my “grenade search”, I watched Les Klie lose his balance and fall out of the loft directly on top of our Lieutenant, who was standing below getting the day underway. Early in our basic training we were taught that officers were one step removed from God and even thinking of striking an officer was something Privates never do, under penalty of death. Falling on top of an officer seemed almost as bad as hitting one to me. I could see Private Klie put on Kitchen Police duty for the rest of his life. After Klie’s effusive apologies, though, both Klie and the Lieutenant brushed off the hay and went about the business of fighting a war. I later learned that combat changes the army’s thinking. There is a world of difference between combat duty and garrison duty. The focus changes from “spit and polish and ceremony” to the no nonsense of “kill

or be killed” and forget the rules.

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The deserted pill boxes near Reisdorf stood forgotten in a rural area. It seemed inconceivable that they could have ever been so worthy a thing that men would die to posses them. At Steige, where we had spent our 1944 Thanksgiving hiking through the enemy’s defenses the house we were in had been remodeled. The Catholic Church, however, remained unchanged making it a landmark identifying one of my more memorable experiences.

Although there was varying amounts of interest in the towns and the places we visited, like St. Die and Steige and Reisdorf, there was an intense interest in visiting Selestat and the house where so many of Company “D” had been captured, killed or wounded. Elvin Beemer from Bedford, Iowa was able to help us find this house where so much happened. Staff Sergeant Beemer was a forward observer for our “D” Company 81mm mortar platoon that night in Selestat, and many of the machine-gun platoon members had no idea he was in the house with them until after the war. At Company “D” reunions after the war, we learned that a mortar barrage that fell on the captured men in Selestat immediately after they were taken prisoner was actually the work of Staff Sergeant Beemer. He had called it in before he was captured, and intended it for the Germans who at that time were gathered at the spot where the American prisoners were later taken. When things go wrong, they really go wrong. With Staff Sergeant Beemer’s knowledge of the maps of Selestat that he had used during the war, and asking a few passing citizens, we finally found our house. The difficulty came from the nearby bridge having been rebuilt differently. The bridge was the landmark we all had been using. Beemer had recalled other landmarks that he had used in directing mortar fire that night.

After the war, the widow of Platoon Sergeant Zack Sigler married an old friend of Zack’s, Charles Wall. Both Mary and Charles were present with us on this trip and saw where Zack was killed. They listened to the men who were with him when he died as they recalled the details surrounding his death. We spent an afternoon looking for Zack’s gravesite, but unfortunately incomplete records kept us from locating it.

[pic]

Platoon Tech-Sergeant Zack Sigler,

like many others, was buried in France.

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When our large tour bus pulled up in front of the house that played such a role in all our lives, we did not know exactly what to expect. The front of the house had been remodeled, but there were still shell marks from December 1944 in evidence over most of the rear and outside walls. Questions flooded our minds. How would the residents of this attractive looking home regard us? How would we be received? Would there be hostility? Would we be turned away after coming such a great distance? For most of us, why we had even returned was still unanswered in our minds.

With the help of our bus driver, Wilbert van Stuivenberg from Amsterdam, who acted as our interpreter, we identified ourselves as the American soldiers who occupied this house in 1944 when Selestat was captured by the Americans. With this, we got the surprise of our lives. The present owner and occupant of this house at 78 Rue d’ Ebersheim, Selestat 67600, France was Marius Jehl. He announced that he was living in this home on that fateful day of December 2, 1944. His brother had been killed during this time and he obviously shared emotional feelings as intense as our own. He was well acquainted with the events that took place when we were there. His reaction was one of spontaneous warm cordiality. He welcomed us all into his home and recounted his version of the events that night. He was just a young boy at the time. It seems he was hiding from both the Germans and the Americans. The Germans sought to make him a German soldier; the Americans of course, were attacking the town. We spent most of the afternoon with each person sharing their personal recollections of the events each had experienced.

It was somewhat eerie, as the men who had been wounded and captured here in 1944, each recounted his experience in the presence of family members and friends. Such stories, standing where it all took place, gave an added meaning that is hard to describe.

Jim Price told the details of how he lost his leg here and Doug Merrill had carried him to safety. Zack Sigler’s widow found closure in learning the details of Zack’s death. We were all here sharing this time forty-one years ago when Company “D” had one of its worst nights during World War II. We recaptured the events of 1944 and the emotions of that time. Feelings ran high for all of us. We were allowed free access to almost every area of the house and encouraged to go where we wished. Everyone asked many questions of each other and walked through the house examining where their husbands and friends had been wounded or killed. The homeowner’s interest and enthusiasm added to our own. As various ones of us told of the events of that day and pointed out where and how each person died or was wounded, there was an intense tearful emotion that gripped us all. This also included our French host, Marius Jehl, and his family. Time had brought forty-one years of change in the lives of the men who fought here

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with Company “D”, but the memories of Selestat remained vivid. For some, this place had been a turning point in their lives. Al Sodman and I walked a short distance to the house we were in that night. We took pictures of ourselves in front of the house and recalled incidents, which we had shared in nervous expectation of what the next day would bring. The large round that had passed through the room leaving holes in the walls was a reminder of how capricious and unpredictable life can be. Our host concluded this afternoon of memories by presenting all of the women in our group with a small bouquet of flowers from his garden. He then solemnly approached each man and gravely shook each hand as though bringing closure to the shared memories of the past.

Friend And Former Foe

Here we stood, friend and former foe, survivors in a war that had been costly to all of us. War has no real winners. Everyone loses something no matter who prevails. We had each once believed we had a cause worth dying for. Life is not complete unless you believe in something more important than yourself, but stopping a war is a more worthy cause than starting one.

These are the people of Company “D” who were on the 1985 tour:

Ben Keil & (wife) Lee - Denver, Colorado

Allan Kraft & (wife) Donna - Tulsa, Oklahoma

Robert George & (wife) Jean - Attica, New York

Donald Montgomery & (wife) Clarice - Waukegan, Illinois

Albert Sodman & (wife) Jenniev - Antioch, Illinois

Doug Merrill & (wife) Bizz - Battle Creek, Michigan

James Price & (wife) Louise - Concord, North Carolina

James Kallod & (wife) LaVerne - Fargo, North Dakota

Gordon Harding & (wife) Sarah - Attica, New York

Donald Bailey & (wife) Lillian - Godfrey, Illinois

Elvin Beemer & (wife) Margaret - Bedford, Iowa

Mary (Sigler) Wall & (husband) Charles - Spring Hill, Florida

Louis Miles & (wife) Betty - Wyoming, Michigan

Jack Durrance & (son) Jim - Gainesville, Florida

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